


Trust

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Fic Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-31
Updated: 2010-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward confronts Blackwood on the subject of magic, machinery, and trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxymoronic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=oxymoronic).



Blackwood is in a meeting with a few of the more trusted conspirators, outlining their coming roles, when there is a knock at the door. He turns, frowning, but before he can dismiss whoever it is, the door opens and Coward enters, and Blackwood finds himself without a proper response. This is unprecedented behavior from Coward.

"A word with you, Lord Blackwood," Coward says, his voice tight, sharp. He glances up at Blackwood, meeting his glance for a moment; the barely checked emotion in Coward's eyes is intriguing.

It is unusual, but Blackwood is curious now. He waves the other men away, and they leave without another word, knowing better than to question him. Coward is standing, still at the door, and Blackwood settles into a chair, toying with a letter opener. "What is it you needed to speak with me about so urgently?", and maybe he is teasing Coward, just the slightest bit.

Coward is silent, looking anywhere but at Blackwood, and walks to the window, staring down at the street. His hands are clasped behind his back, and Blackwood can see his knuckles white against the skin. The silence stretches on and on, and then Coward speaks, his voice tightly controlled, too tight, too close to shattering. "Has there been true magic involved in any of your accomplishments?"

Blackwood does not draw a sharp breath, does not go very still; while his heart skips and his blood turns cold, he is very practiced at not revealing his reactions. He sets the letter opener down with careful, steady hands. "Who have you been talking to?"

Coward does not answer. "Has any of it been real?"

He had hoped, although he knew better, that Coward would never find out; and that even if he did, it would be from Blackwood himself. That he would find a way to break it gently, to make it seem that using machinery and trickery and man's own nature to accomplish such feats was even more impressive than if true magic had been used. That he would find a way to make the confession draw Coward closer, rather than giving him reason to leave. Had hoped for these things, though he had been trying, and failing, to find a way to tell him for months now.

"You must admit," he says, "there is a certain magic to creating such effects by purely earthly means."

Coward turns at that, his voice rising. "Do not split hairs with me!"

Blackwood catches himself. Careful; he must be so careful if he is not to lose Coward over this. The thought does not bear thinking about. If he loses Coward…even if he stays, stays as a member, stays loyal, Blackwood fears he will lose him as a lover, lose him as a confidant, as a friend. The fear is urging him towards recklessness; _tread carefully_, and he takes a breath. Takes a breath and lets it go, lets go as well the careful explanations, the half truths and tangled lies.

"No. there has been no magic."

Coward expels a harsh breath, his eyes closing. "Why," he starts, choked, then rising just shy of a shout, "Why didn't you tell me? Why on earth would you keep something like this from me? Do you have any idea how insulting it is to have to find out from Lord Barlett as if I was some barely initiated fool? What were you _thinking_?"

Blackwood thinks distantly that he is going to have to find something very unpleasant to do to Lord Barlett, but right now he is trying to find a way to explain, a way to explain without revealing everything, without putting himself at risk. An explanation to keep the most loyal man he has ever met from turning away, when the facts are already damning him; no words can undo his past actions.

He begins slowly, testing each word, quite without his usual confidence; _overconfidence, confidence without cause,_ whispers a quiet part of his mind. "Telling you or not telling you both held risk; however, the risk from not telling you seemed less." _You always had such a look of wonder when you thought it was magic…_ He hesitates. "I had no way of predicting how you might respond to learning so early; I could not allow you to leave, or risk having you turn on us." _Or any of a number of other unacceptable outcomes_, he finishes, silently.

Coward jerks back, jerks like he's been struck, his eyes wide and dark against his suddenly pale skin. He takes a half step back, fingers curling tight at his sides. "That you'd, after everything, everything, you'd think, god, it was never about the magic…", and turns away, turns to stare blindly out the window, his hands clenched on the frame. Finally, he speaks, and it's not a question, it's a statement, laced with equal parts anguish and disbelief, flavored with revelation and accusation.

"You don't trust me."

_No_, Blackwood thinks. _It's not that at all, how can you think that?_ He's losing control of this situation, this conversation, can almost feel Coward slipping away from him, and he's going to lose him. Everything he's done to keep Coward close, keep him loyal, will have been for nothing, will have served only to drive him away, and the vision of a future without Coward is a bleak one. He has to find the words, and he can't. He rises, moves forward to stand behind Coward, still without a thing to say, desperate for clarity, for comprehension of what words will make Coward stay. How can he respond to that? How can he explain himself, convince Coward that he trusts him completely, when he's done something so stupid, kept information from him, when all his actions show he doesn't trust?

"Coward," he says, and he tries to make it a command, _look at me, listen to me, turn around, damnit._ He reaches out to lay his hand on Coward's shoulder, and Coward stiffens under his touch.

"Don't touch me," Coward snaps, low, and the brittle sound of his voice jerks Blackwood's hand back, and he's furious at himself for responding so; furious, hurt, and frightened.

"Daniel," he tries again, lighter, chidingly. "You're making too much of this…" and then he can't say anything at all, because Coward has whirled on him, infuriated; he's never seen Coward angry, never seen him truly enraged, and it's almost frightening how intense he has become. Coward pushes him back, his eyes burning, and Blackwood finds his back against the wall, head spinning, Coward pressed against him, brutally covering his mouth with kisses composed of teeth and anger and darker, snarled emotions. His hands come up, close around Coward's arms, but he doesn't push away, doesn't try to stop Coward. If this will make things right again… Blackwood returns each bruising kiss with interest, hoping it will be enough, hoping that Coward will notice the pleas he makes with every touch; _I'm sorry, don't leave, I should have known better, please don't go._

Coward begins to speak, punctuating each kiss with a string of words, fragments of sentences. "After everything, everything; what I've done for the order, what I've done for _you_," and he presses a kiss that is almost gentle to the corner of Blackwood's jaw, "that you still, still won't trust, that you would think, think it's the magic, think I'd, how could you think I'd…" and Blackwood is concentrating on working his way down the buttons of Coward's waistcoat, his shirt, trying not to listen to the things Coward's saying, trying not to let them reduce him to something that is nothing more than desperation and anguish. Coward stops, bats his hands away, grasps them and pins them against the wall. He kisses him again, this time slow, sweet, lingering, until Blackwood is breathless, boneless, wordless, and whispers into Blackwood's ear, "What more could I possibly do to gain your trust?"

He can't answer, can't explain; but he can't let Coward go on thinking this. "I do trust you," he whispers, finally, and Coward steps away the moment he speaks, steps back from him completely, tilts his head and considers Blackwood. Coward is disheveled, waistcoat and shirt hanging open, belt unbuckled, mussed and flushed and utterly delectable, and Blackwood is suddenly aware of the sight he must present, just as debauched as Coward. More so; Coward isn't sporting red marks along his jaw and neck, doesn't seem to be quite as breathless as Blackwood.

The words from Coward's lips are slow to form, as though he finds it hard to say them, and they fall into the space between them with terrible finality. "I don't know if I can believe that," and Blackwood is feeling the ghosts of his actions coming to haunt him now, the past tainting the future. "I have trusted you; have, and this is what it's brought me. I don't think I can continue to trust if you are unable to trust me in return." Coward's eyes are very blue, very weary; his anger spent, all that remains is injury. "I want to trust you," he whispers, "but that is not enough."

"I trust you," Blackwood says again, and this time it is leaden, hopeless. He has lost the right to be trusted; Coward has no reason to believe him, no reason not to leave at this moment besides his own desire to stay, and he has just admitted that is not enough. It is entirely in Coward's hands now.

Coward doesn't say anything more, just reaches out and twines his fingers with Blackwood's, pulls him forward, and Blackwood follows, half stumbling on legs that are far from steady, uncertain if this is apology, or acceptance, or something else altogether. Coward leads him to the bed, disposing of Blackwood's shoes and trousers and waistcoat on the way, toppling them both into bed, Blackwood on his back, Coward lying atop him, hands busy with buttons, mouth busy with the skin revealed at the open collar of Blackwood's shirt. Coward has too many clothes on, the tails of his shirt catching between them, the wool of his trousers almost harsh against Blackwood's legs, and Blackwood could almost sigh in relief. Here, he can gain control again, can settle back into something safe, something familiar, and maybe this is Coward saying he'll stay.. This is one place where Blackwood is always in control, always the master; he takes matters in hand, starts to roll Coward over, and Coward draws back sharply. "No," he says, and Blackwood blinks at him.

"Wha-," he starts, and Coward presses him back down.

"Just, just _let_ me," Coward breathes, and his hand is slick, is drifting down Blackwood's thigh, is pushing them apart, brushing his cock, his balls, and Blackwood draws a sharp breath as it slides lower, glides across his tightly clenched hole. He hand shoots up to settle against Coward's chest, an instant away from pushing him off, his body tensing, and Coward whispers against Blackwood's neck. "Trust me."

Blackwood's breath is coming in short, hard pants, and it would so easy for him to overpower Coward, to flip him to his back and pin him down and pound him into the bed, spread him, own him; his arms are tensed against the sheets, trembling, a fraction away from acting, and "Trust me," Coward whispers again, a command, a plea, a last chance, and Blackwood doesn't move.

He shaking, unable to control even his own reactions, and he's never been in this position before, never been the one to be taken, never been less than completely in control here. It's almost too much, the combination of fear and anticipation and arousal, Coward twisting fingers inside him, watching him with hungry eyes, his lips parted, and Blackwood may be having trouble breathing, but he thinks Coward has never looked more devastatingly beautiful. He'll do whatever it takes to convince him, to keep from losing him, will not misuse his trust again. The sliding, clever fingers are almost pleasurable now, and he's moving back against them when Coward replaces them, filling him instead with his cock, that Blackwood knows so well, knows the weight and curve and slide of, but never like this, ever, and Blackwood is lost for a moment, mindless, frantic.

Sensation comes back slowly, the feeling of being stretched so tight, of being so full, of Coward's trousers rasping against him, of Coward's shirt brushing his thighs; the sound of their breaths, harsh, needy, and Blackwood is learning new features of Coward's cock. Coward is still sliding in, rocking in slowly, until he is flush against him, and Blackwood never knew he could want something so badly, want so much more, and maybe he whines, and maybe he pants, and maybe he is utterly shameless with want. He'd be embarrassed any other time, but right now there is no room for shame in this bed, and Blackwood realizes sight still has not returned, and opens his eyes to Coward, Coward biting his lip, skin shining with sweat, throat stretched out long and taut, vibrating with suppressed moans.

Coward is still for a long moment, and then he is moving, smooth, firm strokes, claiming Blackwood, careful, rewarding his trust, and Blackwood is moving in response, overwhelmed, and he wonders if this is how Coward feels when Blackwood fucks him, wonders that Coward is not utterly incoherent and mindless more often, and he's so close, so close, and Coward leans down, leans into his mouth, and whispers, rasps, half moans but it's still a command, "Never again."

"Never," Blackwood promises; he'd promise anything, but this is one he wants to make, intends to keep, and another breath is all it takes to send him over the edge, his cries swallowed by Coward, semen pooling slick between their bellies, staining their shirts. Coward breath stutters as Blackwood comes, and he lasts for a scant handful of thrusts more, the clenching of Blackwood's arse dragging orgasm from him as well, and his arms give out as he collapses bonelessly against Blackwood's chest. They lie wordless for several moments, nothing more than a pile of sweaty limbs and ragged breaths, bodies twitching with aftershocks, minds slowly pulling themselves back together.

Blackwood has never felt so vulnerable before, so willingly opened, and it should make it harder to speak. Should, but instead makes it easier. "I'm sorry," he whispers against Coward's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I was afraid…if you had gone," and he can't seem to finish his sentences, there are no words that can fully express what would have happened, but Coward seems to understand.

"Hush," he says. "Have no fear. I'll not leave."

"It was myself I didn't trust," Blackwood admits, barely breathes out the words. "Never you."

Coward curls a little tighter against him. "Yes," he says. "I'd realized." He raises himself on his elbows for a moment, to meet Blackwood's eyes.

"I still expect a full account," he warns, "but nothing weighs on that but my curiosity. You trust me; I shall continue to trust you in return."

And Blackwood closes his eyes and pledges everything he is in trust.


End file.
